


haunt me, haunt me, haunt me

by eeveepkmnfan



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, And thus the universe of this story wheezed on account of Hisoka being in it....., Asexual Relationship, Character Study, Demiromantic Kuroro, I Don't Even Know, Idiots in Love, M/M, Panromantic Kurapika, also a subtle harry potter setting?? very very minor, listen I have headcanons for these boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-09-26 16:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17145140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeveepkmnfan/pseuds/eeveepkmnfan
Summary: A series of conversations and days gone by.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aizucream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aizucream/gifts).



> Title from the song haunt me (x3) by teen suicide! Happy holidays!! I hope you enjoy reading this, Emi, and whoever else that may stumble upon it! <3

There is peace in the silence that comes late at night and in early morning; Kurapika relishes the feeling, and yet can’t quite make himself relax. His dreams are troubled, his mind awake with all the thoughts he wished he could lose. Let them float away, off to somewhere else, to someone who wanted them -

But perhaps it is because they are a punishment. Kurapika has no trouble in believing that this would be his penance; a life for a life, and this lifetime has been strange indeed. 

No nen, no chains, no vengeance. Just a power that they all call magic, and sorcerers and wizards and witches like the fairy tales he can still barely remember the sound of from his original life. Can remember his mother and the elders cautioning him about the men and woman cursed with wild blood in their veins. But they were just silly fables meant to teach the clan’s values to its children; funny now that he is the very thing his parents warned him about.

This life doesn’t feel real, and from the moment he first remembered, neither has he. It came on the same day that letter did, and his parents must have been so confused at seeing their child suddenly be replaced by someone else. His relationship with them is still strained, to this day, the three of them more awkward strangers than a family. He doesn’t think he’d want that of them, though.

How could he, when he has memories and sounds and blurry images and the imprint of warm hugs and heavy purpose to anchor him here? He may have not been born into this life a Kuruta, but Kurapika will answer to no other name. It is a part of himself that he cannot bear to part with, not when he’s lost so many other things. 

It is in these moments that he is burdened with regret, for not truly appreciating the friends he’d had. They’re gone now, and he’s loathe to try finding them again, even if they do remember. 

Kurapika is so tired of living with himself, and yet he hates letting go more than anything. What is he without those memories, all of them? He doesn’t know the answer, and so he kneels by the old tree growing all spiraling and loose-limbed just outside the kitchen window and there, as he does every morning and every evening, he prays.

He whispers greetings and apologies and so many questions, all to a black and never ending silence that merely echoes his own words back at him in place of answers. The dead tell no tales, and Kurapika’s clan are somewhere he can’t reach, with his limited power and human guilt. 

He reminisces with them, over the good times that he works hard to not forget, speaking them aloud as if by saying the words enough times, they will never fade. But magic is not so kind as that; the magic that he has been taught, it reminds Kurapika of back when he was a mere boy with only his wooden bokken for protection. Let the magic wielders brag all they want about superior power and awe inspiring spells – Kurapika has seen power and wielded enough of it to know when it is strong; these spell castors are all weak willed and small minded, and their so called power no better.

He thinks of the things Gon, or Killua, or Leorio or Melody would do with it. No doubt something amazing, something he’d love to see. 

But Kurapika has had enough of power, enough of adventure and revenge and blood running through his hands like so much empty time. He can’t bring himself to regret his first life, but he doesn’t even try to fool himself into imitating it. So he went to magic school, graduated top of his class and then moved far away to a place not even his family knows of, and opened a small little pawn shop in the sleepy town a ways down the mountain. 

The townsfolk whisper about him, and there are plenty of rumors floating around about the strange man who suddenly appeared one day to open up shop ( _must be a veela – no, no, a vampire, look at his eyes! – best to keep your distance, hm? no matter how pretty that one looks_ ) but he has long grown used to ignoring them. 

He lets the scent of the incense he lit seep into his skin and as he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that he is somewhere else, that he is home. That the warmth in his chest as his heart beats calmly is the love of his mother, his father, his clan, and not simply the heat of a summer’s day.

The breeze brushes up against his skin, a mere pinprick of a touch, and yet when he opens his eyes, he is still here. He finds himself lost and adrift and alone, but not disappointed. 

One of the first lessons he’d ever learned was how to trick hope into leaving.

* * *

The days pass in mundane slowness, uneventful and peaceful in a way that makes him weary, but does nothing to stop. He runs his store and buys and sells items, and if sometimes he is reminded of Killua by a deck of cards, or Gon with a picture book of the stars, or Leorio by way of a cookbook – he does what he does best and pushes them aside, those friends of his. 

They’d deserved so much more than what he’d given them, he knows.

He bids what he hopes is the last customer of the day a neutral farewell, and is preparing himself for the antique clock to strike six when the jingle of the bells on the door and the hum of his wards make him straighten in place. This is a presence that he recognizes, someone from before, could it be – 

Red eyes meet black, and Kurapika is shocked into a sudden stillness as he stares in silence at Kuroro Lucilfer, a man who, in a past life, he pursued and was pursued by until the both of them died for it.

“Good evening,” that man says, face as stoic as he remembers it being but with his dark, dark eyes looking at him in curiosity, a look that is so familiar to him that Kurapika is struck with a sudden and visceral urge to close his eyes and wake up to a reality where none of this dream is real – 

But Kurapika, ever practiced at denying himself the things he wants, instead does nothing except reply, voice measured, “Get out of my shop.”

That lingering memory, his tie to a past life, his enemy, his hatred – Lucilfer blinks at him and then smiles slightly as he steps further inside.

“Pardon my intrusion, but you see, something in your shop caught my interest. Won’t you please allow me to examine it?” Tone polite but eyes unreadable as they glint in their damnable owner’s skull, Kurapika finds it almost a comfort to find his mouth slipping into a scowl and feeling his blood begin to quicken. All the bad habits he’d thought himself above, they’re suddenly coming back to him now. Suddenly, he doesn’t care quite as much as he thought he did.

Kurapika shouldn’t be surprised that the Spider is here, trying to catch him inside an invisible and gleaming web, and yet – and yet, he is.

He watches as Lucilfer’s head tilts slightly as they look at each other, neither backing down, and thinks to himself, faintly, I’ve already been caught. 

He feels like Ariadne, this world’s myth of a woman winding a thread through a labyrinth to lead Theseus safely out. Except, except, except – he is alone with only that single thread to guide him, and he has so much ground to cover before he is safe again. His hands fumble and catch against the feel of his thread, silken to the touch and yet foreign – 

Or maybe, he ponders as those black eyes continue to hold him, maybe I am to play out the part of Persephone, and you Hades. Wouldn’t that be a role more fitting for someone like you? Stealing from the Earth its own promised Spring; have you ever had a more glorious success than that?

It makes him want to hate, hate, hate with all he is, all that he used to be. Perhaps he would have let himself, years ago. And yet here he is, still here, and still Kurapika but changed, too.

He breaks away from those _eyes_ and sighs as he shoots that man a look. What he gets in return, is of course, laughter. 

“What?” he snaps, fed up of everything. 

Lucilfer smiles, all youthful cheer, and says, “I think I would like to know you.” 

It is then that Kurapika reminds himself that this man is no Greek god, no, how foolish of him. This man is a devil, a curse, a plague to wind itself through his body until it consumes him brain and all. And he wonders, as he stands there and clenches his fists, if this man needs to know the taste of Hell once more?

“I have no interest in _you_. Take what you want and leave.” Kurapika spits these words like they were poison, choking up his throat, face screwed up in an ugly snarl. 

Lucilfer looks as if Christ’s birthday has come early, when he merely grins and seems fascinated instead of put off, like any normal person would be. 

In the face of those gods damned eyes that Kurapika has seen in his dreams, in his memories, in what he considers his true life – 

He looks at his beginning and his end and finds himself with the taste of pomegranates staining his tongue a guilty red and in his hands he finds he has lost grip of the thread. He is lost and adrift once more.

But not alone, it seems.


	2. Chapter 2

Lucilfer looks around in his shop, peering at everything and not stopping for any one item, as if the man is fascinated with his own interest, and it makes Kurapika sick, sick – 

His magic wells up, swells and argues for release, but he has always been one for control. Those chains of his, could they not be said to have held him as well? There is nothing trapping him here now, and yet he still feels cold metal pushing against his flesh; a phantom pain for the kind of freedom found only in a self-restraint so strong he sometimes thought himself mad.

But if it is anyone, it is this man with slicked back hair and big, shiny earrings that can remind him of the parts of him that he almost forgot, funnily enough. For a lifetime ago, the enemy that he welcomes into his shop knew him only as a burning flame – knew only the Kurapika that hated him, loathed him, wished him dead and cried aloud his vengeance…

That it is only in this life that he would get to see more of Kurapika, well. It feels almost like a victory, and he hasn’t had many of those lately. No matter the logic, he savors the feeling of it, lets his hands unclench and face smooth out. 

He is at once more and less than what he used to be, but Kurapika has had time plenty to grow accustomed to that concept, even if it still causes something in him to ache faintly.

He would have opened his mouth for some scathing question if it weren’t for Lucilfer asking first. The bastard doesn’t even turn to face him as he does, how typical. 

“What is your name?” And it is the way that Lucilfer doesn’t even deign to look at him, as if he were beneath his notice, as if he were dismissing him entirely, and that – that is something he can’t stand for.

He raises his head and feels for all the world that something has clicked back into place when he proclaims, voice unwavering, “Kurapika Kuruta.” Practically daring for this man to forget it again, which is almost a thought he can’t stand.

It is unbelievable, for his greatest enemy to forget the name of his own. It is so simply and utterly wrong, and Kurapika is once more reminded that he is the one left burdened with names and memories and gentle, lingering hatred, feeling for all the world second hand clothes he puts on and then complains at the fit… 

He is not Kurapika anymore, but he is Kurapika, still. Because he cannot bear to be anyone else, and because the pain is akin to a comfort these days. 

Lucilfer smiles at him and introduces himself in turn, a name for this world, this life. A name that Kurapika refuses.

You will forever more be nothing other than Lucilfer Kuroro, the Spider. The murderer. 

And he doesn’t know what he looks like, as he’s thinking this; only that Lucilfer gazes at him with the glittering, empty dead jewels he calls eyes and seems as if he knows. Curse him.

Kurapika would if he knew it wouldn’t bring the man back. The last time a perfect example of that.

“Why is it,” Lucilfer begins, “that you look at a man with hatred and sadness in your gaze, when you and he have only just met?” 

Always so curious, that one, that’s right. His enemy is one that could never be satisfied. Had to take and take and take, but Kurapika remembers laughing to himself when he realized that Lucilfer would never be happy so long as he kept searching to steal. The both of them are empty, empty, and it is a comparison that Kurapika only acknowledges because now that he knows the yawning nothingness of death, what that feels like – well, some things put into perspective how little your problems truly matter, in the grand scheme of things.

Death has no care for human emotion. It is only fair. Just fair, and that’s about all he can say about it. Dying, now dying is the hard part to accept.

Life should be easy by comparison. So why does it feel like this? As if he were watching a film, simultaneously too fast and too slow, blurry colors and loud sounds but no credits at the end, because there is no end. Only more.

Kurapika turns his back to his enemy, because he is still prideful. If dying could not have taken that from him, then he refuses to let one man steal it away from him as well. His voice comes out neutral, the practiced shopkeeper that he’s cultivated for use on obnoxious clients.

“You are my enemy, and that will never change.” It feels as if he’s saying it more to himself, a reminder. Because he has a choice. He’s always had a choice. Stay standing still, or… but he won’t put it to words, even in his own head. It would feel too much like a betrayal. 

Kurapika has guilt and regret enough to weigh him down. Any more and he fears what it would do to him.

“Enemies?” asks Lucilfer, intrigued, “I would remember meeting someone like you. How is it our paths came to intertwine?”

Kurapika so badly wants to answer, you murdered my clan and then stole their eyes for your own, and then threw them away when you got bored. But he doesn’t.

He has no desire to emulate the last life, after all, he keeps telling himself. 

Instead he grits his teeth and bites out an answer. “I haven’t forgotten you. Take what you came for and get out.”

But Lucilfer, that damned man, when he sees something that interest him, he takes and takes and takes and never stops. Until he’s bored, or finds something else to capture him for a brief time – just like the scarlet eyes. Just like Kurapika himself, that last time. He refuses for it to happen again.

But oh, how could he be anything but weak to past mistakes? Especially when it comes to this man in front of him, testing his patience?

Kurapika doesn’t think of himself as an angry man, nowadays. Faced with his old enemy who seems all too keen to act out a whole lifetime ago – 

He burns, once more. His blood singing with fury and his head murmuring lines of prayers, he feels the warrior he was. He longs for the dreadful noise of chains clinking and clanging together, his very own version of war drums.

Lucilfer looks at him and smiles and opens his mouth to say something in that levelled, controlled tone of his, and suddenly – 

Kurapika’s last strand of patience snaps. A thread cut and broken, and for some reason, it feels right.

He waves his hand and Lucilfer goes fling bodily out of his store, the door slamming shut behind him. He hears the locks clicking into place, the curtains moving to cover the windows, and the soft thump of the welcome sign flipping to say closed, and he – 

Kurapika pictures the look that must be on Lucilfer’s face, and even if he’s probably wrong, the image still sends him into great, loud laughter, the kind he’d once thought belonged only with his friends.

If Killua were here, he’d only be laughing harder, he knows, because that child never was satisfied until Kurapika was crying from mirth. Gon would be confused, he thinks, but would smile and laugh along anyway and then firmly grip Kurapika’s hand in his, not needing to say a word.

Leorio, oh Leorio. He would stand tall with righteous indignation that the Spider had even come here in the first place, puffing himself up and shaking his fist towards the closed door as if he thought their enemy could see it.

And he’d shout, _“Don’t even think of coming back, you hear!?”_

And Kurapika would look up, and find himself faced with that tall back in front of him, as if Leorio was trying to protect him from his own anger.

_“You’re too damn reckless, Kurapika! Don’t you get that your friends worry about you? That I worry about you?”_ His hands, on Kurapika’s shoulders, strong and warm and grounding.

I know. I know.

Kurapika laughs and laughs until eventually, he’s crying too. 

He stays there for what feels like a long, long time.


	3. Chapter 3

Kurapika dreams that night of a party, one that is empty and silent and just meant for him and a masked man wearing a crow’s visage. When he brings a hand up to his own face, he finds no mask of his own, and for some reason, feels a bit sad, or maybe bereft. 

With sleek, black feathers lining his skin, the man bows and wordlessly asks for a dance. He puts his hand in the crow’s and accepts, and soon they are standing close and dancing, with no music to be heard and no crowd to gawk at them. It is at once eerie and perfect, and Kurapika becomes confused at that sublime contradiction he’s just uncovered; has it always been so that loneliness feels this way? He finds he cannot answer.

He looks closer at the man he’s dancing slowly and sweetly with, and realizes that it is no mask he is wearing, and for a moment, he is reminded of the magical beasts from his homeland. Then, he is unfortunately reminded of this strange new magic he still hasn’t come to terms with, is still confused and a little bit fascinated and disgusted by, and Kurapika stops.

He stops still, their dance on pause, and the crow opens his beak and asks, “Where are you going, looking like that?”

Kurapika answers back, I don’t know. I need to go.

Crow peers at him with eyes that seem curious and impassive. “No, I don’t think you do, child of the Earth. You still have unfinished business.” 

He says nothing and merely turns his head, as if by not seeing he is free from knowledge. The silken touch of feathers brushes up against him, and he faces the other man again before his heart can stop him.

“I’m scared,” Kurapika whispers, the utter silence of the ballroom sending little shocks up his bloodstream. He knows if he isn’t careful that his voice will be stolen away, too.

Crow sighs, a small exhaling of breath that is more reflexive than it is emotive. The shimmering sheen of his sharp beak is caught by the light, and for a moment Kurapika wonders if the light that wanders over it becomes a part of it as well. But he should already know.

“You should be.” And saying so, Crow grips his hands in his and then leads him over to a closed window, curtains a bloody crimson and the fabric almost sheer at first glance.

Crow looks at him and Kurapika has the feeling that he is smiling. “Choose wisely.”

Then, he is suddenly gone, and Kurapika isn’t surprised at all, simply alone. He looks around at all the lavish decorations and useless decorations with no one to appreciate them, and then he looks once more at the window. It is a small thing, most probably overseeing the garden. For it is an unspoken rule that all lavish, rich ballrooms must have an outdoors garden that people take for a given.

Kurapika understands the source of his fear but doesn’t know it. Cannot say that he has met it face to face and had themselves introduce each other. 

Maybe fear, too, is something that longs to be held by some nameless nobody and then told, it’s okay. You’re okay. 

It’d be a hell of a lot more simple if that were the case, he thinks.

But he must make peace with it eventually, and though Kurapika has had his fill of peace enough for a lifetime, he thinks he is still just as stubborn, and so he will. He is tired of time, and of how it erodes and softens him into someone he wished he wasn’t.

He’s afraid. Of course he is. And he doesn’t know what else to say, or what to do, or anything, really. But he admits to it, to this weakness that feels somehow, like a tiny pocketful of strength, and he supposes that it’s a start.

He pushes his hair out of his face, and then – 

He pulls back the curtains and opens his eyes. Kurapika comes awake calmly, and for some reason, he is smiling slightly as he does.

He puts it out of his mind, thinking to himself that he must have had a pleasant dream that night, and never thinks any more of it. After all, dreams are just dreams.

He rubs the sleepiness out of his eyes and fixes his usual cup of tea, sitting in the stillness of the morning, and for once, appreciating it just a bit more.

* * *

That morning, after his prayers and the offering he made of a chocolate bar and a plate of savory breakfast, Kurapika resolves to do some gardening. There is a small fenced off section in front of the house that its previous owner left half dug up and fertilized. Even now, there are sprigs of flowers doing their best to bloom, and bulbs of questionable origin lying about. Of course, there are also rather a lot of weeds.

Kurapika gets to work.

He spends an hour or so getting rid of all the weeds, and it would have gone by much faster if he weren’t going about it so carefully, in fear of harming the plants there already. But it got done, eventually, and overall, the little section of land looked much better for his efforts. 

Hands and knees dirt covered and grass stained, he grabbed the tools left in vague disrepair in a long forgotten shed, and began the task of straightening the rows and replanting everything in more advantageous spots. He finds himself getting lost in thoughts of what he should plant there next, what would go best here in this shade, maybe I could start growing some vegetables….

He gardens there for hours, and it is only until he is satisfied with his work and the look of his plants that he realizes that it’s already early afternoon. 

Kurapika is even more surprised to find himself feeling content. As if a pleasant breeze had blown through and into him, as if to say, see? There’s life here, too.

Maybe it’s comforting. But he thinks that he wouldn’t mind doing this again.

Not even an hour later, he finds himself the proud owner of twelve different types of seeds, and Kurapika smiles.


	4. Chapter 4

If it is days or weeks later that they meet, Kurapika cannot tell. Only that time passes him by like it’s late for something, rushing off and leaving him behind. So it is now that Lucilfer slows to a stop in front of his porch, and for all his used up resentment, this meeting feels inevitable. 

As if all the winds and whispers in the world were holding their breath to settle in and see.

Pitch black coal spear him where he sits, and for all that he should feel vulnerable, (and a part of him does) mostly he feels calm. It is not the eye of the storm he used to be so known for, so deadly and still; this is something entirely new. He has been remade and now remade again at the hands of the man in front of him, and the thought of that – it makes him tilt his head to speak.

“What have you come seeking?” But he already knows, and so before Lucilfer can even part his lips that bring nothing but poison, poison – 

“You will not find it here,” Kurapika laughs low and empty, red eyes shining, “You will never fill your empty hands with something of mine, thief.” It is a statement he makes with full confidence, despite knowing exactly who it is that has come searching. It is a nostalgic feeling.

That same blank face that seems to be mocking him, laughing at him… it stays silent and lets the world turn for a few moments more. “Kurapika. That is what they call you.”

He stands abruptly, finding his feet but finding no balance. He aches to retire inside and slam the door shut for a forever and a half; however long it takes until even a greedy spirit such as this one tires too. But the Spider trapping him here will not allow it, and he knows that if he were to try, he would only be walking into a trap of his own making.

He bares his teeth and revels in whatever emotion causes those black, black eyes to widen. He will not allow himself to be taken for a fool, and this man would do well to remember that.

“Kurapika Kuruta. That is who I am.”

Lucilfer takes him in and then, ever so slowly, smiles in the face of his contempt. 

“I do not doubt it,” he says. Kurapika only scoffs, a brief puff of air escaping before he turns to look at his comfortable garden, all easy silences and tireless work. He walks over and sits inside of it, amongst the already blooming spider lilies and lilac. 

The garden always seemed to welcome him and now was no different, which was a comfort he found himself terribly grateful for when Lucilfer sat down next to him as if he were entitled to it. Or perhaps he just didn’t care. Either way, it made him want to feel flesh give way under his fist, and he could picture how the blood would paint itself over the flowers and ground.

His garden seemed to share in his opinion, for it felt as though the very air came alive with a dangerous and intent watchfulness, and the sound of vines shifting set the stage for what any other person would have called frightening.

Of course, Lucilfer merely sat there and seemed bemused, or curious. He did not move away even when a particularly insistent patch of forget-me-nots neared his skin. It was not trust, or confidence.

It was as he had said all those years ago: he did not fear death. And for once, Kurapika found himself staring at his enemy in something other than hatred. He could put no name to it, but it was there and it would not allow him to look away. 

“Your magic feels almost like a curse… how curious, for it to belong to a humble shopkeeper. When I first met you, I wasn’t quite sure, but now I’m certain.”

In that moment, the whole world seemed to stop, and it felt as if a vice were squeezing his heart. He knew then that the man beside him had already found something worth keeping, and for all that he had known that this would happen, he still wasn’t ready. But time doesn’t wait, even for love-lost ghosts such as him. 

Kuroro Lucilfer gazed at the garden Kurapika had built himself, and said, “A part of me knows you.” He felt simultaneously fever bright and chilled. A shiver ran through his frame as the man next to him turned to smile at him, as if to say, this will be mine, too. 

One day, I will have you. Will spin silken silver thread around your limbs and inside your body, and you will welcome me.

In the face of that, what could he do? 

As he stared at the man who was his enemy and now, unsettlingly, something else, Kurapika was reminded of Dionysus. Of wine and revelry and most of all, madness. He wondered if he were already mad, and if not, where the fine line was to cross. And how near his foot was to going over.

But Lucilfer was frustratingly sane as he regarded Kurapika, he knew. He knew and that was perhaps the sharpest stab to his gut – a madman would have been so much easier. 

It would be easier. But for all that Kurapika coveted his humanity, he didn’t think he would so easily lose it, or at least, not any more than he had already given away. He didn’t want to lose any more of himself, wanted to at least guard the important parts. The ones that knew well the slickness of blood and the promise he had made and kept.

He thinks of so much laughter and of the chaos one man can cause, and he knows now that the two are not necessarily separate, even if he would protest otherwise. In the end, a thousand and one things flash through his mind, and notions of heaven and hell and gods and religions and good and evil and the in betweens – Kurapika wonders and then realizes that none of it matters, really.

The two of them are human, and like any other, are cracked and broken and filled in haphazardly by way of their faults and feelings, and really, that’s the way that Kurapika prefers. It is not easy, but it is not meant to be.

They sit in silence that feels unbreakable, held back and unknowable, and when vines of grapes sprout from the Earth and wind their way gently around their bodies, he is not surprised.

He watches as Lucilfer picks one from the stem and crushes it against teeth; can’t help but think to himself, does it taste of blood, or of wine? When he swallowed it, all that Kurapika could know, was that the back of his own throat hummed and sang silently of a bitterness that near choked him, and he made himself turn away before he tasted anything else.

A Spider smiles at him and catches him before he can, saying without words, your heart I will save for last.

Kurapika holds his head high and replies, ever prideful, we shall see.

And yet they remain there, side by side, for hours, in silence that goes quiet after a while even with all their unspoken words. Neither of them would be able to give a reason why that satisfied them. But then, for creatures of impulse, hows and whys didn’t matter.

Only what remained at the end.


	5. Chapter 5

For some reason, the next time Lucilfer comes bearing that smile of his and a gift made up of a worn down spine and words and words and words, Kurapika lets him. He walks into the pawn shop like he belongs there, now, and it almost feels as if he does. The man can be subtle when he wants to be. 

When he wants something. But the thought isn’t nearly as angry or hurt as it used to be, mostly just there, and he can’t understand himself. Thinks he never really did in the first place. As Leorio would say, he’ll just wing it, he supposes. 

“Here,” Lucilfer offers the old paperback to him freely, and after a moment, he slowly takes it, turning it over to read the summary. It’s about a fisher who lives near the ocean finding some sort of eldritch creature during her morning routine. It’s just the right mix of ordinary and interesting to make him actually want to read it, damn him, so he lays it down on the counter between them and asks, face serious, “How much?”

The man laughs and tells him it is a gift freely given, and he is glad that Kurapika likes it so much. Kurapika curses and calls him something that probably shouldn’t be repeated but that he has been waiting to say to this man, and he feels more glee at it and the slow blink he receives for it than he rightly should. 

Then Lucilfer smirks and asks him a question that both flusters and confuses him, and somehow, they wind up discussing religion right there in the shop, the two of them leaning towards each other without even noticing, drawn together like two magnets. As if their bodies were saying what their lying hearts could not.

Surprisingly, they come to find that they are both cynics; one an atheist and the other agnostic, it is almost funny that the two of them are there speaking of gods and people and faith as if it is something they have ever had. Or rather, maybe they had it for all the wrong reasons, as some would argue. But Kurapika does not regret what he did, really, only that he didn’t do more. 

It is tragic to realize that he has more in common with Lucilfer than he ever thought. (But he did, before, and he was too weak to admit it. Now…. he doesn’t know what gives him the strength.) 

Perhaps power has nothing to do with it, though. What use was power when all he ever got from it was a half way point? It is almost funny how easy it was to obtain the eyes in comparison. No, he soon realized that in truth, he only ever wanted to protect what was important to him. Some of his clan no doubt has some strongly worded lectures waiting for him, and others will instead have great, enveloping hugs that he is decades too old for but will always accept, and none of them will ever approve of what he did, but a few will understand. Those few will look at him with red, red eyes and they will ache too and know why, and they will be the ones that he thinks will be the hardest to face. But he is not ashamed, no matter if he should be, and he will stand there and let them look and see, because nothing is harder than waiting. 

He is so ready to see them that some days he thinks he is already dead. His friends would all tell you how bad he is at patience, and that, that makes him smile.

He doesn’t know where he is, where he’ll end up or where those he loves are, but he thinks that whatever happens, he’ll see them eventually. He’ll make sure of it. 

Lucilfer makes a noise that is half curious, half triumphant, and it is so childlike a sound that Kurapika despairs even as he snorts at it. What, he wants to ask, what are you? 

“You smiled!” he exclaims, as if proud, looking at him all gleaming eyes and intent expression. 

“Yes?” he questions, bewildered and amused and smile getting bigger.

Lucilfer grins and says, so carefree, “I want to get to know this Kurapika more.” And he’s so smugly pleased with himself and it’s so annoying that Kurapika can’t help but burst into laughter, clear and loud, snickers interspersed inside pauses.

The man in front of him leans his elbows onto the counter and then puts a palm to his cheek, looking for all the world content to stay there and just watch him. Kurapika can’t bring himself to care through the sudden stomach cramps. He wheezes and wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, then cocking a hip and tilting his head slightly as he stares at Lucilfer.

“You’re the most despicable person I’ve ever met,” he says, entirely serious.

Lucilfer hums. “I find you… singularly fascinating. What a rare surprise to find here, of all places.” He sounds absolutely delighted.

Kurapika rolls his eyes and then frowns. “What reason did you have for coming to this town in the first place?” It comes out suspicious and vaguely threatening, but that is par for the course for their conversations, and Lucilfer does not even seem to register it as something to pay attention to.

“Mm, I’ve been traveling a lot lately. But when I stumbled upon your little shop, something pulled me inside… and when I saw you, I knew I would be staying a little while longer.”

It’s just about the kind of answer he had been expecting. What a fool he was to ever expect something clearer. 

“Because ‘a part of you knows me’, was it?” He scoffs at the words as he says them, but truthfully, he feels hopeful or hesitant or nervous or disgust or anger. It is all mixed up inside him, and he has no want to straighten it all out.

“Yes. I want to know you as well. The Kurapika who hates me and the Kurapika who laughs… I want to know them all, you see.”

“Because I’m ‘fascinating’, apparently?” It comes out just a little bit bitter. Bittersweet.

Lucilfer shakes his head and looks at him too fondly for someone who… someone who is only meeting him for the third time.

He smiles at him and quietly says, “Because you make me feel something. Because you are alive. Because I would like to see more of your smiles… You are so human, Kurapika.”

Kurapika stands stock still and utters, small, “Oh,” and understands. Suddenly, Lucilfer and him and everything between them has changed yet again, but this time, he feels… 

Lucilfer stands and gives him a bow, and when he comes up, he is no longer smiling. “Have a good evening,” he softly says, and then he’s slipping out the door like he was never there. Only the tiny chime of a bell to mark his presence. 

Kurapika’s hand bumps into the paperback, and he looks down at it and then stores it safely away under the counter. He doesn’t know what he’ll do with it. 

A few hours later, he is closing up shop, book in hand. That night, he sits out on the porch and begins to read, a simple candle lighting the way.

He spends entirely too long absorbed in that book and wakes the next morning to a sore back and the sleepy, unrested feeling of those who make mistakes. He doesn’t regret it.

He blames Lucilfer, of course.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now... an interlude! I'm nervous writing for these two, but I had such a fun time doing it that I'm almost not, haha! I hope you enjoy this little chapter!! <3

The boy who you’ve known all your life (the parts of it that matter; watercolor paints on a black canvas) stands a few feet in front of you, his long black hair a casualty to the wind. You cannot see his face but you know that he is not smiling, merely gazing blankly up at the sky and thinking nothing at all. Or maybe this time he’s thinking of a dream he had the night before, or perhaps…

He calls your name, and the both of you aren’t surprised when you sit cross legged right beised his feet and look up, up, past those long straight legs and all that muted presence wrapped up in one single person. He’s beautiful; ugly and quiet and fun and, when your play your cards right, quite violent. A shiver rolls over your spine and the way he eyes you says he knows it’s not from the weather. You bring one of your legs up to wrap an arm around, smile and then feel your eyes crinkle, as if to say, ‘Who, me?’

He does not laugh or smile back, but he does settle down beside you. A point in your favor! The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes before you decide you want to break this calm draped over the both of you like matching jackets. (He would scowl if you ever mentioned this metaphor; you resolve to do so when he’s not expecting anything from you.)

You reach for his hand and grab it. He lets you pick and prod and test his skin and his fragile bones, and you have the feeling that he wouldn’t care either way if you went ahead and snapped them clean. Or messy. You’ve done it before, all kinds of ways, and he’s more than returned the favor, so you decide that since you’re leading the score today that you won’t. (Tomorrow, you’ll probably forget all the rules you made up today and he will accuse you of being fickle. Guilty!) 

He tires of this soon, though, and digs his nails into you when you don’t let go. More and more pressure until blood is running down both of their wrists, bright red against tan and white. A tiny splash of color where there is nothing – you must admit that you are most fond of those kinds of moments. Not that you try to hide what you are or who, even. The orphanage used to call you a freak; these days you are a monster, and it is the one title of theirs that you might be inclined to thank them for, for it is something of a mark of pride you like to pin upon your body. 

You have always found it entertaining to wear masks, to be many different people sometimes at once but mostly at a time. (You have vague memories of a circus. Curious, when you know that you are the bastard child of nobility, a couple who would not even be caught dead at such a place…) When you first met him, he told you that you were obnoxious and shallow, and he was right. Now, you have years enough of practice and your plethora of acts can fool even the adults of this city, who should be wise to your tracks by now. You hope they do get wise, and quickly; it’s no use playing against yourself, after all.

Maybe another you would resent him for understanding you but you can’t. It is strange and unsettling and you frequently feel like you are a criminal just barely escaping arrest whenever he turns his eyes on you; ridiculous and silly, for if either of you one day had to get caught, surely the police would catch your ambitious friend first! Those needles of his aren’t merely for sewing, as he has proven many times over the years… (You’re never bored when you watch him use them, clothes making or murder or stitches or no.)

It makes you laugh to think that he understands you when you don’t. You used to, you think, when you were very young, but that time is boring and the you of that place was boring, too, and so you prefer to think of yourself in either the present or the future – brief bursts of activity before they, like your knives, dull and rust. You don’t understand him, either. But you like him, you do.

You like him almost as much as getting into fights or watching everyone simultaneously fear and sneer at your sense for aesthetics, and most of the time he even ranks above Bungee Gum, which is truly saying something.

He is not precious to you. He is a constant, something steady and reliable and that would be so boring if he wasn’t him. It is only because of who he is and who you are that the two of you can co-exist like this, you’re aware. Take away one or the other, and who knows what would happen? For once, he doesn’t want to follow the trail laid out by a question. Breadcrumbs and a childish type of mystery; what are they next to your friend, your only one, who keeps you satiated just enough to whet your appetite?

Not many things can compare to him, of course. Those that do, you make sure for them to never cross wires – you were forced to choose, once, you, a selfish creature among many, and what did you pick but yourself - because, for some reason, there is an instinct in you that says, point blank, do not let go of him.

You don’t understand, but you don’t particularly want to, anyway. You like him, he tolerates you, and it is weird how fragile you feel when you think to yourself that you don’t that to change. You are fourteen years old, and yet you had almost forgotten how sweet innocence tastes. (Would he be so tame? No, no, his is a mouth that _bites_.)

“Hisoka,” he says, voice empty. You look at him and remember the night that both of you shed yourselves of the world and chose something else. More.

( _“Why that name?”_

_Pitch black eyes meet yours and he says, straight faced, “You would be a terrible secret keeper.”_

_You laugh and laugh until he is reduced to furrowed eyebrows and a head tilt._ )

You smiled and ask, “Hm, Illumi?”

( _“Because you shine. You’re beautiful, you know?” A sharp pain as he is pricked with a needle; a love tap._

_Illumi frowned at him and then replied, “Please do not hit on me. We are both children.”_

_You smirked and opened your mouth, only to feel the crack of your nose as a punch landed. You laid on the floor basking in the bruise that was no doubt forming as you watched Illumi turn away._

_“You are disgusting.”_

_His lips were quirked._ )

Illumi scrunches his nose up and you already know when he is going to say. This one is a familiar conversation, one you both enjoy.

“As payment for holding my hand…”

You smile, eyes gleaming. “Yes, yes, a new braid for your luscious hair! I look forward to getting my hands on even more of Illumi…”

A sharp prick, then a slight drag… You let out a breath.

“You spoil me, Illu!”

The needle in your side stabbed deeper, and you thought that your next color would be pink. Almost like blood, but just a shade lighter – a more lighthearted and playful statement. 

You couldn’t wait to see the look on the matron’s face when you returned to the orphanage like that. She would probably faint, poor thing. At least she wouldn’t have to worry over you being too flamboyant anymore; you would be sure to show her just _how much_ of anything you were. 

Of course, pink going with white so well meant that dear Illu would of course have a grand time designing more things for you to wear! How considerate of you~.

You’d been so looking forward to breaking out that wicked pair of six inch heels, after all.


End file.
